


Call Me Rebecca

by heartbash



Series: Rebecca and Nathaniel Give Love a Chance [4]
Category: Crazy Ex-Girlfriend (TV)
Genre: AU where nathaniel isn't a complete buffoon, Angst and Feels, BACK ON MY BULLSHIT, Canon Divergent, Domestic Fluff, Established Relationship, F/M, Feels, Fluff and Angst, role play
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-03-03
Updated: 2019-03-03
Packaged: 2019-11-08 19:33:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,469
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17987294
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/heartbash/pseuds/heartbash
Summary: Creativity isn’t Nathaniel’s strong suit, and never has been, so when he comes home from work on a Friday night to find a note from Rebecca promising a night of role play, the thought both excites him yet simultaneously sends him into a tiny panic.Rebecca and Nathaniel try to role play.Set between the events ofEight Times Rebecca and Nathaniel Grew Closer (and One Time Rebecca Freaked Out About It)andBunch & Plimpton & Associates.





	Call Me Rebecca

Creativity isn’t Nathaniel’s strong suit, and never has been, so when he comes home from work on a Friday night to find a note from Rebecca promising a night of role play, the thought both excites him yet simultaneously sends him into a tiny panic. 

At some point between leaving work early for her appointment with Dr. Akopian - there are perks to living in sin with the boss - and now, Rebecca wrote a note and left it on the entryway table, in handwriting even messier than usual, if it was possible:

_Let’s spice things up_  
_Meet me at 10:00pm_  
_146 S. Glendora Ave_  
_Call me Maggie_

They’ve never role played before, though Rebecca has a tendency to take on personas at will, usually in the form of an affected voice and idiosyncratic mannerisms of some tropey movie character she’s seen, which both baffles and still manages to charm him every time. The revelation that she tends to slip into these roles when she’s feeling vulnerable or uncomfortable in her own skin strikes him one day and the sheer simplicity of the explanation makes him feel like a grade A idiot for not picking up on it sooner. Still, he reluctantly plays along, letting her spin like a top until she gets dizzy and stops pretending.

In the bedroom, her clothes from the work day are strewn across the floor - a blouse here, a skirt there - as if a F3 Rebecca tornado blew through, leaving nothing but destruction in her path. He gathers up the garments, balls them up, and tosses them across the room into the open wicker hamper. Swish. With a little fist pump, he decides maybe he can rally for this little escapade after all, despite his reservations. Not knowing who _Maggie_ is or where exactly he’s meeting her makes it difficult to decide on the appropriate ensemble for the night, so he opts for a classic outfit that always makes Rebecca swoon. Black snug jeans with a black v-neck t-shirt under his black bomber jacket. A look she once described it as _sexy smooth spy chic,_ hissing the alliterative _s_ with a serpentine flair while she stroked his chest, setting all his nerve endings alive. 

As he breezes by the kitchen on his way out, his periphery vision alerts him to two foreign objects on the counter. A shot glass next to a slender bottle of Grey Goose vodka. Rebecca rarely drinks hard liquor, at least in his experience, which he considers a good thing, given her lightweight status. (Cheap date, she would clarify, to put a positive spin on it.) Thankfully her car is still in the driveway, which either means she was drunk before she even left the house or, at the very least, she intends to get drunk tonight. 

The address, as it turns out, belongs to _The Cove,_ West Covina’s own finest hole-in-the-wall cocktail bar. He’s been to the establishment before (though he never took the time to learn the address by heart), but never on a Friday night and never with Rebecca. Inside, the music is louder than he’s used to, the lights are dimmer, and the air is warm in that stale way when a place is packed with too many bodies. The sound of pool balls hitting each other periodically splits the air and, despite the fact that it’s almost fall, American flags and other kitchy patriotic memorabilia from the Fourth of July still adorn the walls.

He spots Rebecca leaning on the bar, stuffed into a skintight black dress with a halter-style top, a black studded faux-leather jacket thrown over it. It’s just barely covering her cleavage, which is spilling out of the dress that must be a least one size too small for her. And, if that isn’t enough, a long necklace drapes down right between her breasts, in a move that must be intentional, drawing his eyes right to the spot. Her eyes are smouldering, rimmed with dark liner, and her lips are stained blood red. Seeing her like this, so different in appearance from their normal day-to-day interactions, sparks a fire in him that makes him want to put his mark on her, claim her. 

She scans the crowd and, when her eyes lock with his, a coy, satisfied smile tugs at her lips. As quickly as the smile flashes, she tamps it down and turns back to the bar, pretending as if she hasn’t seen him.

He insinuates himself between her and the next patron and whispers into her ear, “Is this seat taken?”

“Oooh,” she coos, “hi sexy stranger.” She offers her hand and he can smell alcohol oozing from her pores. “The name’s Maggie.”

He takes her hand but freezes, realizing he has not put one iota of thought into his own story. “I’m Nat...Nathan,” he stammers.

“Nathan?” she echoes, annoyed, raising her right eyebrow at him. “Ok. Nice to meet you, Nathan. What brings a tall drink of water like yourself to a place like this?”

Again, he hesitates, his lack of improvisational skills continuing to rear its head. “Uh, well, I’m just looking for a little company tonight, I guess,” he says, bending down to crowd her space. 

He slips his hand over the irresistible, lucious curve of her hip and she recoils. “Excuse me, sir. Did I say you could touch me?” she scolds, dramatically indignant at the audacity of the move.

“Sorry,” he quickly apologizes, removing his hand and resting it on the bar instead. “You’re so gorgeous, it’s hard to resist.”

She smiles and it travels all the way up to her shining eyes, her whole face betraying her facade of a cool exterior. “So, what do you do, Nathan?”

The words automatically come out before he consciously thinks to filter them, “I’m a lawyer.”

She frowns.

“A criminal lawyer,” he self-corrects, “working on a very intriguing case right here in West Covina.”

She leans forward, faltering a step in her four-inch heels but catching herself. “Sounds titillating. What is it? A murder?”

He hooks his finger around her necklace, his finger lightly grazing her chest. “You might say it’s a crime of passion,” he murmurs, trying his hand at sounding seductive. 

“Eyes up here, cowboy,” she says, forcing an accusatory tone, her eyes dropping not-so-subtly to his mouth.

He releases the necklace and traces his finger up her chest, pausing at her collarbone and dancing his fingers along the smooth plane. “I don’t know, Maggie. I think my eyes are right where you want them.” Nathaniel cants his head and her eyelashes flitter in a way that makes his stomach flip.

“Hey there, beautiful,” a man’s voice cuts through the tension, breaking up the kiss before it even begins. The man is a full head shorter than Nathaniel, with cropped brown hair and a meticulously trimmed beard. He’s stout but noticeably muscular, the sleeves of his graphic tee straining against his bicep. He cozies up on the other side of Rebecca and places a tall, cloudy glass in front of her. “Got you a Long Island. Hope you didn’t miss me,” he says, playful and warm, putting a hand on the small of her back.

Nathaniel fixates on the hand, his eyes practically bugging out of his head.

Rebecca clears her throat. “Sorry, Nathan, this is my new friend, Russ. Russ, Nathan. Nathan, Russ.”

“Hey man,” Russ says, reaching around Rebecca to offer his hand to shake.

“Uh...hi.” Nathaniel makes no move to reciprocate the gesture of good will so Russ retracts his hand after a few seconds of it lingering awkwardly between them.

Rebecca picks up the drink and takes an exaggerated, long sip through the straw. After she swallows, she squeezes her eyes shut for a moment and exclaims, “Phew, that is strong,” and slams the drink back down on the bar. 

“Re - Maggie, how much have you had to drink tonight?” 

“Oh, I’m just getting started,” she says, winking at Nathaniel.

Russ raises a _back off_ hand to Nathaniel. “Don’t worry, champ. I’m taking care of her.”

The little hairs on the back of Nathaniel’s neck prickle up at-attention and his nostrils flare. 

“Russ is a really great guy. And look at these arms,” she says, squeezing his bicep appreciatively.

Russ shrugs, sheepish. “I work out.”

Nathaniel shakes his head, incredulous, and clenches his fists.

Rebecca, noticing his reaction, ups the ante. “My boyfriend would be sooo jealous,” she says to Russ, trailing her hand from his upper arm to to his shoulder. 

Nathaniel exhales sharply through his nose.

“Oh, you have a boyfriend?” 

Nathaniel chest constricts. Maybe he doesn’t want the chase after all.

“Hey, Maggie, I really hate to interrupt this little meet-cute, but can I talk to you for a second? Over there,” Nathaniel asks, pointing away from the bar, his blood now at a boiling point.

Ignoring Nathaniel’s plea, Rebecca continues, fully slurring her words, “Don’t worry, we’re monogam- _ish_.”

“Uh no, we’re really not, actually,” Nathaniel interjects. 

Russ backs away from the bar and his eyes ping-pong between them. “Sorry, are you two together? Is this some kind of set up?” He contemplates this proposition for a moment and adds, “Are you looking for a third? I might be able to get into that.”

“I don’t know this man,” she cries with a theatrical flair, putting her hand on Nathaniel’s chest. Her voice suddenly takes on a slight twang and her breath smells like it’s comprised of roughly 99.9% alcohol. “Can’t you see I’m just a small town girl, a dancer, trying to make it in the big city, trying to get my big break, going from audition to audition?!” 

Rebecca takes another long swig of her drink, draining the remaining liquid until she’s loudly slurping at ice cubes. 

“I’m just looking for a man to help me forget about all my troubles for a night. You know, my parents had me to try to save their marriage and look where it got them!”

Russ squints and Nathaniel’s brow furrows in confusion, not one clue where her barely coherent tale is headed.

She barrels on,“This afternoon I went to an audition and the director said I wasn’t up to snuff. Not good enough. But what does she know?! All she does is write in her dumb-dumb little notepad and wear oversized, weird necklaces.”

Nathaniel notices the way her face flickers with pain, only for a second, blink and you’ll miss it, but it’s there, the way her eyes cast downward and her top teeth press into her bottom lip, leaving two tiny indentations.

“What did she say?” Nathaniel prompts. 

“Apparently my highs are too high and my lows are too low,” she says, quieter, only to Nathaniel.

“But isn’t that what acting is?!” Russ says, aggrieved on her behalf, attempting to insert himself back into the conversation. 

Rebecca, suddenly reminded there is a third party to their conversation, straightens her posture and Maggie is back. “Yea, exactly! Thank you, Russ. It’s like she wants me to be a zombie or something. She wants me to take a bunch of pills and make me a robot. But, guess what, I am not a robot. I am a woman. A human woman. And I do not need her medication or her, supposedly, _expert_ opinion.”

“Rebecca,” Nathaniel whispers and palms her elbow.

She jerks her arm out of his grasp and says, “I’m not Rebecca, I’m Maggie!”

Russ’s face falls, recognition in his eyes. It’s unmistakable, the familiarity in the way Nathaniel touches her, the loving way he speaks to her. And Russ, though drunk, is not an idiot. After closely watching their interactions, he nods to himself, grabs his drink from the bar top, and walks away. 

Nathaniel calls out, “Sorry,” after him and means it. 

“Look what you did! You scared him away,” Rebecca yells, swaying as the full impact of the latest drink hits her.

“He’ll be fine. Let’s just go home and you get a good night’s sleep.”

“Or,” Rebecca says, practically purring, crawling her hands up his chest in a way that makes him weak in the knees, “how about we meet in the bathroom in five minutes and you fuck me up against the stall until I can’t walk straight?”

“You already can’t walk straight,” he quips. 

She pouts her crimson lips and pushes her chest against him. “Don’t you want me?” 

“I’ll still want you when you’re sober. Come on.” 

She relents and lets Nathaniel guide her to the door with a steady hand around her arm. When they spill out into the street, he’s grateful for the deep breath of fresh, cool air. The music cuts out as soon as the door closes behind them so the only sounds on the street are cars as they whoosh by and the click of Rebecca’s heels on the pavement. 

He opens the passenger side door and helps her down the curb into the car, a protective hand on her head to prevent her from bumping it.

“Am I under arrest, Officer Nathan?” she jokes as she flops into the seat. “You were undercover the whole time!”

He pulls the seatbelt over her chest and clicks it into its holster. “Such a sloppy drunk,” he chastises her, though his voice is soft with mirth.

Her head lolls against the headrest and she grins up at him. “Shut up.”

As they drive home, Rebecca fiddles with the zipper on her jacket, gliding it up and down its metal track. “I think what’s-his-name would have had sex with me,” she muses, as if she’s making light small talk.

“Russ. And he certainly would have.”

“I still got moooves,” she sing-songs, attempting a body roll from her seated position.

For a second he feigns annoyance, truly wanting to be mad at her attempts to make him jealous, but laugher creeps up on him at the sight of her struggling to dance against the resistance of the seatbelt.

Undeterred, she croons, “ _Let’s have intercourse, I mean, obviously you want to too_.”

“What? What is that?”

“Your song.” 

“ _My_ song?”

She abruptly stops dancing and covers her eyes with her hand. “Oooh no,” she groans.

“What?”

“Everything’s spinning.”

He reaches across the console and rests his right hand on her thigh. “You ok?” 

She swallows hard. “I think I’m gonna throw up.” 

“Can you make it home?”

She nods but he floors it anyway, speeding through a few yellow lights for good measure.

Inside, Rebecca violently kicks off her patent black heels in the entryway and rushes to the bathroom and he lets her have a head start, sliding the deadbolt into place behind them and hanging his jacket up in the coat closet.

Moments later he hears heaving from the bathroom, the sound bouncing off the tile walls in a horrifying cacophony. His own stomach lurches in sympathy. He finds her white knuckling the toilet bowl and the putrid smell pervading the room makes him want to turn right back around. Suppressing the urge to gag himself, he squats down next to her and gathers her hair away from her face. He decides to focus his attention on a corner ceiling tile while she retches, avoiding the sight of her expelling the entirety of her stomach just inches away from his face.

When there’s nothing left to vomit, she pants over the toilet, her breathing heavy and erratic, and lets out a series of strangled whimpering noises. Her forehead glistens with a thin sheen of sweat. 

“It’s ok. You’re ok,” he soothes and reaches above her to flush the toilet.

A few more deep breaths and she releases her grip and collapses against the nearest wall. He leans back against the bathtub, sitting perpendicular to her, their legs jumbling together in the narrow space.

“It’s in my nose,” she whines, resting her head back against the wall in defeat. Streaks of eyeliner pepper her cheeks and her lipstick is all but gone.

He balls up some toilet paper and hands it to her and she blows her nose in it, her brow furrowing in disgust. 

“You’re right. I’m a sloppy drunk,” she says with a hint of a rueful smile.

“It’s ok,” he whispers, wrapping a hand around her ankle and rubbing the pad of his finger over the bone.

She wipes under her eyes and tries to tame her hair for a second before giving up and accepting her current state. “I’m dressed like a sex worker.”

“You’re...yes, yes, you are,” he chuckles.

She throws the balled-up tissue at him and he dodges it, thwacking it toward the trash can mid-air. She giggles. 

Nathaniel rises and disappears to the kitchen, returning moments later with a tumbler of water. He opens the medicine cabinet above the sink and finds a bottle of pain reliever.

“No drugs,” Rebecca moans from the floor.

“I’m not letting you go to sleep until you drink water and take these.”

“Nooo.”

He crouches down to her level. “Look at me.”

Her bloodshot green eyes meet his clear blues.

“It’s Ibuprofen,” he says, with finality, and places the two tablets in her palm. His words seem to cut through her drunk logic and she accepts the pills. She throws them back and chugs the water until it’s completely gone.

“Thank you,” he says, satisfied, and sits back down on the floor. 

“You really love me,” she states, matter-of-fact.

“I do.”

“I wanted to give you a sexy night,” she says, dejected. “And...I wanted to be someone else for a couple hours.”

“I know.”

“You can still sex me if you want.”

“Sex you?” he laughs. “As appealing as that offer sounds, I think I’m gonna pass.”

Nathaniel is able to coax her into bed, after she wrestles herself out of her dress in a nightmarish contortionist dance, all while he tries to stifle any overt signs of amusement. The Spanx underneath are an even bigger ordeal.

In the few times he’s witnessed Rebecca this intoxicated, she passes out the minute her head hits the pillow. Tonight, though, she’s restless, and every time he’s about to drop off the precipice into sleep, she breaks the silence. 

“Nathaniel?” 

“Hmmm?” 

“I’m sorry I flirted with that guy.”

“S’ok.”

She rolls onto her side to face him and he feels her breath puffing against his cheek.

“Nathaniel?”

“Hmmm.”

“Do you ever think about how every choice we’ve made in our whole lives have led to this very moment?”

“Can we talk about this when I’m awake?” he mumbles, so close to sleep he’s barely comprehending her drunk ruminations.

“If we made one different choice in our lives, we wouldn’t be lying here together right now.”

Silence.

“Do you ever think about that day in the elevator?”

“Sweetie, I am really tired.”

“What if there’s an alternate timeline where we had sex in the elevator?”

Silence.

“I wonder how they’re doing.”

“Who?”

“Other Rebecca and Nathaniel. Who had sex in the elevator.”

“I don’t know.”

Rebecca finds his hand in dark and tugs at it until he takes the hint and wraps his arm around her middle. She hums with contentment and burrows her face into his chest, wedging a leg between his, and he finds his home nosing her hair before finally drifting off to sleep.

*****

Rebecca rouses the next morning from the aroma of dark roast coffee wafting from the night table. Her eyes crack open and the first things she sees is Nathaniel’s maroon and white ceramic _Stanford Law_ mug, piping hot, steam billowing up into the air. 

She rolls over, moaning and stretching out her limbs, to find Nathaniel, in boxers and a grey t-shirt, a mug of his own in-hand, sitting against the headboard as he browses through the _LA Times_ on his phone. 

He sips his coffee then asks, “How you feeling?”

“Ok, I guess. Could be worse.” 

With considerable effort, she sits up and grabs the mug, mimicking Nathaniel’s pose so they’re sitting side-by-side.

“I’m sorry I ruined our sexy night with my drunk self.”

He stops scrolling and sets his phone down on the bed. “We can try another time.”

She nods, takes a sip, and her expression turns contemplative. 

“Dr. Akopian wants me to try medication again.”

“I gathered as much from your little monologue last night.”

She sighs and stares straight ahead, cupping the mug in both hands, warming them. “All the times I’ve tried before, they’ve just numbed me.” 

“You also said that in the past you were overprescribed.”

“What should I do?” She turns toward him, her eyes begging for an answer.

“I can’t tell you what to do.”

“But what do you think? I want your opinion.”

When they moved in together and Nathaniel helped her pack up the apartment, he found a full bottle of antidepressants, untouched, under the bathroom sink, the prescription dated six months prior. It concerned him, especially after learning in support group that everyone’s else loved one was on some form of medication. He took a chance, confronting her on his discovery, and she faked indifference, insisting she didn’t need them. 

“I can manage my own disorder, thanks,” she had said, snatching the bottle from his hand and throwing it into the trash. 

The rest of the packing process was spent in tense silence.

He bites his lip, carefully choosing his words. “I think...you should listen to your doctor. She knows you.”

“Why does it feel like giving up?” she whispers.

“You know, my mom didn’t really become my mom until she went on antidepressants. I think it’s the opposite of giving up.”

Rebecca says nothing, focuses her attention on the mug.

“Why did this come up again?” he ventures to ask, assuming there must be some impetus for the discussion.

“I really didn’t want to tell you.”

“Tell me what?”

She closes her eyes and exhales. “I’m having a lot of anxiety. About quitting.”

“Oh.”

“I didn’t want to tell you because I know you’re putting a lot of time and money and energy into the settlement with your dad. And because I know it’s very personal and so important to you. But the truth is I’m scared. I’m scared to quit. And it feels like I’m abandoning everyone who’s helped me through the past few years.”

“Do you think,” he pauses, clears his throat, “Do you think it’s a bad idea?”

“No, no, no. It’s just the uncertainty of all of it. There are so many unanswered questions.”

“Like what?”

“Off the top of my head… How long will the settlement take? How will I tell Paula I’m leaving? Will Paula hate me for leaving? Will your dad be civil with you or will he fight this? What if you never speak to your dad again after this? Will you subconsciously resent me if that happens? Because I’m kind of the reason you went to therapy in the first place. And when we start our own firm, how much money will we need? How long will we be straight-up unemployed before we can open? How will I afford medication if I don’t have insurance? What if we’re not successful and we lose everything?” 

“Wow, um, that’s a lot.”

“Sorry.”

“Well, first off, I will never resent you for whatever happens with my dad. He’s the reason I’m doing this, not you. And, who knows, maybe he’ll be proud of me for striking out on my own.”

Rebecca says nothing and he knows she’s biting her tongue, stopping from verbalizing what they both know deep down, which is that there is zero chance his father will have a positive reaction to his leaving the firm. But he’s grateful she’s letting him pretend, at least for the moment, that there could be another outcome.

“And I don’t want you to worry about money. What I’m owed from the firm will be more than enough to float us until we get on our feet. Don’t let it be the reason you don’t start your medication. We will figure this out. I promise.”

She stares down at her nails and he wonders if she believes him, if she trusts him with this.

“If you don’t want to do this anymore - the partnership - you know I won’t be mad, right? I know it’s a big risk.”

“I want to do this with you,” she says, with certainty. “But sometimes I have a little trouble with all the ambiguity. It’s not my strong suit - not sure if you ever noticed.”

“Ok,” he says, taking her hand in his, “how about we make a plan today? I’ll go over the entire agreement with you. Then we’ll figure out dates and numbers...and how much we need to pay Paula to get her to work for us.”

At that, she smiles and squeezes his hand. “Yea,” she whispers, nodding.

“Yea?”

“There’s nothing I’d rather do on a Saturday when I’m hungover,” she says with a smirk. Releasing his hand and sipping at her coffee again, she adds, “I’ll just need a little - no, a lot - of this first.” 

While she takes a hardy sip, he leans over and presses a kiss to her temple. 

“Alright, partner, let’s get to it,” he says, with enthusiasm, throwing his legs over the side of the bed.

Rebecca tilts her head back in exasperation. “Come on, can’t you give me, like, a minute?” she whines.

He ignores her plea and pads to their office to grab his laptop. He calls out to her, eager to provoke a reaction, “Let’s fire up a spreadsheet!”

“Oh my goddd,” she groans, but he can hear the laughter infused with her protest. As she begrudgingly throws off the sheets, she yells back, “I love you, but if you open Excel right now, I can’t be held responsible for what happens next.”

They spend the next several hours sitting cross-legged on the floor of the living room, the legal agreement spread out on the floor between them, his laptop close by. Her half-eaten muffin sits next to their twin coffee mugs on the end table as Nathaniel explains how he plans, legally and financially speaking, to separate from his father. (How it will shake out personally is an entirely different topic they avoid for the time being.) 

After hashing out everything they need to accomplish to open the hypothetical doors of _Bunch & Plimpton & Associates,_ all while never changing out of their pajamas, they decide on a date in October for their grand opening, provided everything goes according to schedule. Rebecca talks excitedly of a red ribbon and oversized scissors, a whole ceremony, to mark the occasion and he’s just grateful for the return of her beaming smile at the thought of their partnership. 

Rebecca fills her prescription the next day.

**Author's Note:**

> Email: heartbashfic@gmail.com


End file.
